This is another sensory details assignment and I actually can’t remember if it was for History or Reading. This story is based on what I think Dolly Madison might have gone through the night the British burned down the White House. It focuses on what she felt based on her senses and feelings. The theme is really patriotic and comes off kind of cheesy to me but better a theme than none lol. Dolly Madison was an amazing woman and *fun fact of the day* many people think that she is the reason that ice cream is so popular however it is improbable that she was the first to serve it at the White House.

I had often heard of a sort of sixth sense that people get when something terrible is about to happen. I never believed it was true until now. A mere few seconds before the maids burst in, the hair on my neck stood up. A few moments, and then pandemonium. 

“Washington is under attack!”

The news sunk in. My first thought was of John and James. James was out on business, so I had to trust that he was safe.

“Does anyone know where my son is?” I managed to squeak out in the eerie silence that had now settled over everyone in the kitchen. 

“He was ushered out first thing, M’lady,” the first maid answered. 

“Thank you.” As soon as I said that everyone seemed to remember the situation. The roar of flames could be heard from a few rooms away. The smell of burnt fabric snaked its way through the kitchens.

In a split second, I knew that the White House would not last the night. I made the decision right then and there to save all that I could. Through the numbness of my thoughts, I heard commands coming from my mouth that sent frazzled servants scurrying about.

Before I left the kitchens to move on to other rooms, I grabbed my purse and crammed in as much silverware as humanly possible. I managed to tell a few leftover servants to grab some plates and pans. I hadn’t even left the room and already sweat was dripping down my brow. 

My throat was parched by the time I sprinted into one of the main rooms. The shadows of the monstrous flames were reflected on the sweeping curtains; hung by silver rods that I had picked out myself for the Jeffersons. I couldn’t leave these to the hungry flames, so I told the servants trailing me to start on taking them down. “As long as you can get out before the roof collapses,” I said, “make sure the curtains make it out.” 

I rushed through the rooms delegating objects to be saved to any available person. The seconds merged together. I got caught on some object and my dress got all mangled. In the end, it helped me to move with more ease. I passed through my own quarters and was greeted by the aroma of perfume smashed on the ground. I grabbed some important documents of James and moved on. I had them all packed up before; after James left warning us of a possible attack. I hadn’t wanted to believe him at the time but I still sent a lookout and packed a few things up. 

Upon entering the next area my notice was immediately drawn to the portrait. George Washington’s. No matter how many times you saw the painting it still managed to amaze those that walked through the doors. It meant something else to each visitor. An accomplished leader, a skilled artist, a symbol of patriotism. To me, it was a reminder of the American Dream or experiment as so many called it. This country runs on hope, and the minute no one believes in the dream, it’s lost forever.

It had been one of my favorite pastimes, when bored, imagining the events this painting would witness. I couldn’t let its history end here. Without even thinking about it I walked over to the canvas. I handed off the papers I was carrying and set to prying the frame off of the wall. I pushed and jostled the frame only to find that it was screwed on. A servant close by noticed me struggling and I instructed him to break the frame. Once that was done I grabbed the canvas and rolled it up. 

“Mrs. Madison you really should be moving on now,” the cook, a close friend, prompted. 

I complied and held the artwork tight as we ran to the back exit. As I ran past the window I caught sight of the city. Red as far as the eye could see. The color swirled up and mixed with the smoke coating the night sky. A tear must have slipped out, as the salt mixed with the aftertaste of a sauce I had been testing in the kitchen. Had that really been half an hour before? But there would be time for crying later. The painting in my hand gave me the courage to move on.

I walked out the back door knowing I did my best but still feeling conflicted. We had lost so much tonight but for now, we had to focus on making it through. As I got into my carriage, I got one last glimpse of the White House. It only made me clutch my bundle harder. I never let go of it the entire ride and was reluctant to hand it off to the safe-keepers. As I relinquished my hold, the painting’s reminder resounded in my mind. I knew that no matter what the rest of America woke up to tomorrow and was forced to face, hope would still survive. That was my comfort throughout the long ride.